An aberrant, completely unjustified scream ripped through my throat when I awoke that morning to find dark spots of blood dott
An aberrant, completely unjustified scream ripped through my throat when I awoke that morning to find dark spots of blood dotting the crisp, white linen sheets I'd managed not to rumple too terribly when I'd dozed off the night before. But I digress. There was blood, plain as day blood, on my sheets. And for some horrible, unnecessary reason, my mind jumped to the furthest thing from any logical truth. For one awful, terrifying, totally unfounded moment of helplessness, I thought I'd been stabbed.
Honestly. Stabbed. As if something like that happened frequently!
What didn't occur to me until it was too late (and by too late I mean I'd sufficiently woken Jesse from a dead stupor next door and he was now attempting to pound down my door, a fact blissfully unbeknownst to my mom for reasons beyond my comprehension, and thankfully unbeknownst to Doc, who'd gotten scared and went to sleep in his dad's room) was that I was, in fact, a woman. And not just any woman; no, I was an ovulating woman, which meant, as I'm sure all you other ovulating women out there can back me up on, that once a month or so (unless I happen to be irregular for any given amount of time, though it wasn't that likely) a bunch of blood pools in my uterus and escorts that little unwanted egg from my… well, you know.
And it was weird, because right then I knew something was up. My little blood bath was a pretty regular occurrence. I could usually spout out a relatively close time frame anytime a doctor or my mom or someone wanted to know when it hit me next. But this was so utterly unexpected that, for some reason, my mind could only connect it with some strange spectral event, and not just irregularity that happened once in a blue moon or something.
But just why this was, in fact, my period and not some residue from a stab wound didn't occur to me sooner, I've no idea. I assume in my sleeping state I was just about to be murdered by some unforgiving slaughterer with a penchant for stabbing girls in their abdomens, or whatever – the point was, the damage was done. And now I had to deal with the repercussions.
Namely my poor, naïve boyfriend who evidently thought I'd been stabbed as well.
I couldn't blame him, I reasoned with myself as I quickly shed my soiled pajama bottoms and replaced them with a pair of track shorts I'd stolen from the gym locker room – I had screamed bloody murder, for Christ's sake. Thought I suppose it didn't make things much better when I opened the door and he barreled through, spinning around wildly, and happened to notice the blood spots on my bed that I'd inconveniently forgot to cover up.
Whoops!
"Susannah, what's happened in here?" he half whispered, half yelled, eyes widening in such a way that I just wanted to snicker, pat his cheek, and give him a lollipop or something, poor guy.
Instead I put my hand on his arm, lowering it exponentially, for he'd unconsciously raised it as if preparing to pulverize the perpetrator, and said in the softest, most soothing voice I could manage, "Sorry, Jesse, it was nothing – just a little accident is all. The curse of having a menstrual cycle that likes to get a kick out of life by cropping up in the middle of the night. Really, I can usually tell when it's coming, you know, but I guess I was just too tired to notice much until I woke up and saw, well… Jesse? Are – are you okay?"
My ramblings, it turned out, only seemed to make the situation worse. Jesse's caramel skin visibly paled, so much so that I almost began wondering if I was still dreaming and this was just Jesse back when he was a ghost and all.
But I was pretty sure even dream cramps didn't hurt that bad.
"Jesse," I repeated, slowly this time, like I was speaking to some deranged person, attempting to calm him down before he assassinated the president or Madonna or something. But he just turned his head slowly, kind of in that scary way that dolls in horror movies do when they're trying to spook the little kids in bed, his eyebrows scrunching up in odd, twisted angles, mouth curved and half open like he wanted to say something. Or like he wanted to hurl, more likely. "Honestly," I tutted, annoyed and only slightly embarrassed. It was enough that I had to deal with this on a regular, monthly basis – I didn't need my own boyfriend making me feel oddly insecure about it.
Royally peeved off by now, I merely threw my crumpled sheet over the stain, escorted Jesse into the hall, and slammed the door behind me. Well, not slammed, per say – closed firmly would be more accurate. I'm not completely inconsiderate!
"Hey, bub, you wanna tell me what your deal is?" I demanded only slightly unkindly, my arms folded snippily over my chest.
"I… sorry, I think I need some water," he managed to choke out, reaching for the handle of my door, and then apparently having second thoughts about it – he turned, instead, and slipped his key into his own room door before disappearing unceremoniously behind it. It closed in my face, which heated up immensely as a flush crept up my cheeks. Really! He could be so insensitive. I turned back to my own door, lifting my key to the lock… except; of course, I had no key to put in the lock. I'd marched out of my room in a huff and had invariably forgotten my key. Wonderful. "Jesse!" I called through the thick wooden door that separated us. I heart his shower running, and I pounded on doorframe and the wall in turn, fruitlessly. He couldn't hear me. And honestly, I wasn't about to go marching down to the front desk, asking for a spare room key, in my sleeping tank top and faded gym shorts. I had more dignity than that, thank you very much.
So I prepared to plop myself on the floor beside Jesse's room, poised to knock my little knuckles the minute the water stopped running. I didn't even have a chance to sit myself down. Suddenly, a voice was quiet and soft at my ear and I squeaked, too surprised to get anything else out of my poor, overused vocal chords. "You are Susannah Simon?" the voice whispered, though it sounded more of a statement than a question. "I am Zephyrus, god of the of the west wind. Come with me." A smooth, glowing hand clamped around my wrist and dragged me down the corridor. By then my voice was in properly working order, and I had a scream nicely prepared at the base of my throat, but when I glanced up into my captors eyes I saw the face of the young ghost man who I'd met the previous night. His looks struck me just as hard as they had the first time, and the scream died in my esophagus.
I was baffled at how warm his palm felt. It just wasn't right. How could this amazing spectral being emit such a toasty aura when it was entirely unnatural? I know, I know – technically he's completely unnatural to begin with, but at least ghosts have their chill to identify him by. I felt like my body was playing tricks on me, and that either he wasn't really a ghost, or I was feeling particularly warm-blooded lately.
Zephyrus – god, what an old time-y name – led me through the stairwell and we were going up, quite swiftly. The floors passed us quicker than I could count, and only when we were suddenly heading beeline straight did I whip my head forward and look where we were going. Straight for the emergency roof exit, that was where. "Hey, wait a minute!" I objected stubbornly, only a teeny bit scared – I wasn't exactly keen on landing myself in any trouble, much less in a foreign country. But we didn't slow, and as his hand reached out to shove open the door, I braced myself for the alarm that the shiny, laminated sign warned me would sound. It didn't come, of course, which some part of me knew all along, really. Ghosts could do anything – sometimes it just wasn't fair.
A slight drizzle was coming down, which wouldn't have been nearly as bad had the wind not been viciously tearing at the roof-top garden terrace (maybe that's why the alarm didn't sound), the plants blowing fiercely but staying miraculously rooted. Zephyrus pulled me to the middle of the tiled mosaic and stopped. Unaccustomed to this lack of motion, I kept going a good few inches before the grip he had on my wrist tugged me back. I allowed myself a peek into his pretty features again, but they were peeking back at me – and they weren't as pretty as usual. His glowing caramel skin had been tinged an eerie, sickly grey, his gaze was cast upward, and what I'd once thought were beautifully defined cheekbones now appeared too harsh, too sharp for my liking. He continued to stare, and after a moment's hesitation I followed his gaze.
Flying, actually flying, just above us was well-muscled, extremely chiseled, heavily bearded, winged man. His eyes, thought I couldn't see them nearly as well as I could Zephyrus', were hard set, his brow low and stern, jaw tightened but somewhat relaxed at the same time. Zephyrus spoke again, but I couldn't take my eyes off this man. "That is my brother, Boreas, god of the north wind. He is not pleased, I can tell. Susannah Simon, you must find him and discover what troubles him, for my time of isolation is not yet finished."
Wait. What?!
"Excuse me," I said, my voice tinny and somewhat scared sounding. I finally took my eyes off of Boreas and returned them to Zephyrus' hardened features. "I have to what? How do you expect me to even catch this guy? And wait… he's… he's a ghost like you!" At this spectacularly obvious revelation, Zephyrus merely nodded. "Well, listen here buddy… I'm no expert. Maybe with ground ghosts, but jeez, the guy's got wings. And what do you mean, your time of isolation isn't finished?" I knitted my brows, already perplexed.
"I do not have time to answer such foolish question," Zephyrus said, his own brow twitching slightly. The way he spoke, though, sounded as if he'd spat his words at me rather than whispered. He glanced down at me and I set my jaw, returning his gaze with a stubborn expression, though I felt more scared than stubborn. He sighed. "Nor do I have time to wait out these next two weeks unaided. Susannah Simon, a very long time ago I committed an unspeakable deed. Boreas casted me away in isolation for centuries to come, but he has been lenient. I have been free to roam the earth as I please, but contact with my brothers has been severely prohibited. Now, however, I fear something is amiss – I know I am right, as Boreas knows, too, that all is not well. I cannot face him or my isolation will be extended centuries further; therefore, I need you to make contact with him and discover what is trouble is to come."
I admit it – my mouth, by that time, was fully agape. For once, I had no quip on the tip of my tongue, no sarcastic remarks or arguments of any sort. Though I'm fairly certain I would have thought of something, had Boreas not turned his intensely alarming gaze on Zephyrus in that exact moment of my silence. The clouds above rumbled threateningly. Zephyrus' arms wrapped around me lightning fast, and suddenly Boreas turned toward us and beat his great, ivory wings, and we were blown backward with enough force to propel us, the wrong way, through the roof access door. It flew from it's hinges, the last dregs of Boreas' angry wind whipping it violently through the air and sending it spinning over the side of the hotel.
Zephyrus had cushioned most of my fall, but I knew he was gone when I felt the distinct cold hardness of concrete at my back. The faint, irate sound of a car alarm drifted up on the wind and met my ears, but by then everything had gone black.
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Thanks to any who have stuck with this pathetically stinted story - and especially thank you to Scarlet Redd for insisting I keep this up a bit better. I've got the next chapter completely planned out so it should be up soon. Of course, I won't promise anything - I've already proven to be horribly unreliable.